


Madoka Remembers

by TaraSamadhi



Series: Love and Adventure in the Homura-verse [1]
Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Best Friends, F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Identity Issues, Memory Related, Post-Rebellion Story, Relationship(s), Yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSamadhi/pseuds/TaraSamadhi
Summary: A post-Rebellion tale. Our magical girls are in the first year of high school.Madoka is still acting like her high-school self and Homura meets her that way as well, in her sad excursions from demonhood. But Madoka has figured it out. She knows that she is living in a simulation of the place where she grew up and where she first knew Homura.Her concern is the fact that she has forgotten Homura countless times, to the point where Homura built a world where Madoka can forget their true connection.So she spends a special evening with Homura, just to make her happy, and comes to some kind of self-awareness as to why she has been "dumb" for much of her life.A gentle story about two young adolescent girls who are very old. Yuri coming down the pike.





	Madoka Remembers

Madoka remembered fairly quickly. Dreams came faster and more frequently every night, revealing her real nature and the fall into someone’s sadness that had crystallized around her into a world. The sadness was not hard to decipher. She knew it very well. It was the grief and sorrow of a person she had forgotten so many times, who needed nothing more than to be remembered, until after the last forgetting she locked everyone safely up in a cage.

Homura betrayed herself very frequently, as though creating a “universe” had also dulled her self-awareness almost to nothing. Madoka would meet her and Homura’s memory of herself was visibly a little off each time, in inconsistent marks of different stages in life or clothes that were a little too small or other things like that. Homura was always happy to see Madoka, Madoka knew, the only time in fact that she ever seemed happy. But her eyes were leaden and she looked like she wanted to die, having given up hope that she ever could.

Madoka instinctively knew not to tell Homura when she figured the whole thing out, most of it anyway. Homura probably suspected that Madoka was assimilating more and more with her goddess form outside of the labyrinth they were in. Madoka did not understand the split, how the old world could exist at the same time as the new one, but she was both the Law of Cycles again and a comfortable prisoner of Homura’s making. 

Looking in from outside with the help of the magical girls in the same realm, she patched together the story of why Homura did this, namely the conspiracy of the Kyubeys to restart the whole cycle of misery after Homura, in a state of fatigue, let slip what the previous, obliterated system had been. It was sickening. Not what Homura had done, but the depth of sorrow and rage and yearning into which she had locked herself to protect the person she cherished beyond her own life.

As she patched the story together more and more over time, seeing Homura every now and then and sharing time with her, the most sickening, disgusting insight into herself skewered Madoka and left her clutching her stomach. How many times had she forgotten Homura, the person who most remembered her? All the different timelines, with each one memory of her friend disappeared, even if it was Homura’s doing. But what difference could that possibly make? And when Madoka dematerialized as a goddess, how could she forget the abject despair of the girl she was leaving behind, so agonized and fatigued and filled only with the knowledge that Madoka was there? How could she leave Homura behind? And the forgetting came back to a large extent when she went to save Homura from the labyrinth.

Now, Homura had decided to make Madoka forget what made up the strongest bond between them, the cycle of struggle and courage and love in the timelines, the source of what Madoka, even at this point, knew was a kind of unrequited love addressed only to her but never opened. The thing is, she thought, it has never been unrequited at all.

Shortly before Madoka and the others found a way to open up the labyrinth, Madoka was walking home down a street right before dusk, looking down at the creek to her right. This is where she had always walked home after school, in her first year of high school. Homura had perfectly scaled and rendered it, a masterpiece. The slow shallow water and the stones in the creek, the trees and their arrangements, the way shadows parted and converged in the waning sun. But unlike the rendering of Madoka’s house, filled with warmth and a tenderness of detail, this creek and path were tentative in an indefinable way, as though they were created solely out of research. That made sense. Homura had rarely walked home with Madoka. Madoka had, for some reason, not even been sure where Homura lived, at least in the lifetimes she remembered. She had always loved Homura, adored her really, but known her? No.

No wonder Madoka had forgotten her. She had never really remembered her. What a dumb pink bunny I was, Madoka thought. One who misunderstood and underappreciated the bravest girl I will ever know.

Just as the light disappeared, she saw the profile of someone standing near the end of the path, on a berm in front of an office building, looking at the sky. It was Homura, in high school garb, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. She looked at the sky as though she had misplaced something there, and a sadness darker than night emanated from her. It’s my friend, Madoka thought. It’s my sweet good friend.

“Homura-chan!” Madoka yelled, waving. “Homura-chan!”

Homura turned around, startled, and in the last traces of light Madoka saw her smile. Homura climbed down the berm onto the path. Madoka stretched out her arms, ran over and embraced her. Homura looked startled, but she didn’t fight Madoka off. Madoka took her hand.

“Come home with me,” Madoka said. “There’s be plenty to eat for dinner.”

Homura looked panicked. “I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you, Homura-chan,” Madoka said. “I’m telling you.”

Homura gave in and walked hand-in-hand beside Madoka. Madoka gave her a sidelong glance and saw her friend quietly smiling.

It was only another five minutes to Madoka’s house, but things were a little different than she expected. Her mother and father and baby brother had unexpectedly gone to visit an aunt who had taken sick, but they had left a lot of food for dinner. This is good, thought Madoka, except for my aunt of course. We can have dinner alone.

Madoka’s father was an excellent cook and they ate as though there were no tomorrow. Finally, the two girls sat back in their chairs and stared at each other, bloated. Then they began to laugh.

Madoka took her friend’s hand again and led her into her bedroom, sat her on the bed still holding her hand, and turned to her.

“Homura-chan,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how precious you are to me. And I have been thinking about that. I wanted to tell you that. Sometimes I don’t…remember. But I love you.”

Homura’s face went pale, starting with the word “remember”. Her powers of speech failed her. “Madoka, why are you, why are you…”

“Homura-chan, I need to tell you this,” Madoka said. “I realized today that I haven’t been a good friend even though I love you so much.”

This was too much for Homura. She broke down sobbing, hunched down toward the floor, gripping the side of the bed. Madoka took a thin throw blanket and wrapped it around them both, gave Homura a rabbit plushie and pulled her in tight. Homura sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes, occasionally saying something like “How could you” and “It’s not fair.” Madoka just held her close and stroked her hair and finally kissed her forehead.

“I need to go home,” Homura choked out. “Thank you, Madoka, you’re so sweet, but I need to go home.”

“I’ll walk you, Homura-chan.”

“But how will YOU get home?”

“It’s easy to get back here. But I want to walk you.”

“It’s two miles.”

“Is that too much?”

“No, but…”

Finally, about twenty minutes later, the two girls stepped onto the sidewalk. Madoka seized Homura’s hand and would not let it go for the whole walk. Homura was almost overwhelmed. She was alternating between smiling and weeping and laughing and frowning. But Madoka would not let go of her hand.

When they got to Homura’s house, Homura gave an apprehensive look at it. Wow, Madoka thought. Maybe nobody lives there. Maybe she doesn’t have anyone. But she could not ask.

Madoka waited until Homura was inside, then headed toward the transit station an eighth of a mile away. Her own footsteps sounded separate from her, as though another person were walking.

How could I forget? How could I forget my lovely friend?

And then a possible answer came to her.

I think I’ve never really been who I am. No matter what I’m doing, I’ve stayed the dumb bunny. And since a part of me never knew who I am, I never really knew much about the people I love with all my heart.

How could I remember Homura-chan?

I barely remember myself.


End file.
